“Rash man!” exclaimed Mowbray, as he again stepped forward to unloose the cords that bound him. “Why have ye again cast yourself into the hands of the men who seek your blood? Do you hold your life so cheap, that, in one week, ye would risk to sell it twice? Why did not ye, with your father, your brother, and your wife, flee into England, where protection was promised!”
“My father!—my brother!—my wife!—mine!—mine!” repeated the preacher wildly. “There are no such names for my tongue to utter!—none!—none to drop their love as morning dew upon the solitary soul o’ Andrew Duncan!”
“Are they murdered?” exclaimed Mowbray, suddenly, in a voice of agony.
“Murdered!” said the preacher, with increased bewilderment. “What do you mean?—or wha’ do you mean?”
“Tell me,” cried Mowbray, eagerly; “are not you the husband of Mary Brydone?”
“Me!—me!” cried the preacher. “No!—no!—I loved her as the laverock loves the blue lift in spring, and her shadow cam between me and my ain soul—but she wadna hearken unto my voice—she is nae wife o’ mine!”
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Mowbray; and he clasped his hands together.
It is necessary, however, that we now accompany John Brydone and his family in their flight into Westmoreland. The letter which their deliverer had put into their hands was addressed to a Sir Frederic Mowbray; and, when they arrived at the house of the old knight, the heart of the aged Covenanter almost failed him for a moment; for it was a proud-looking mansion, and those whom he saw around wore the dress of the Cavaliers.
“Who are ye?” inquired the servant who admitted them to the house.
“Deliver this letter into the hands of your master,” said the Covenanter; “our business is with him.”